


Now, Forager: A Story With Strong Morels

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mushrooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows and respects a lot of the people at the Beacon County Mycological Society's annual morel hunt and potluck picnic, which makes it easier to confine the competition (the one he knows is only in his head) to "man vs. nature" or "man vs. self." But he's mature enough to admit that there is one instance where his struggle is most certainly "man vs. man."</p><p>Specifically, "man vs. Derek Hale."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now, Forager: A Story With Strong Morels

Intellectually, Stiles knows that the Beacon County Mycological Society's annual morel hunt and potluck picnic isn't a contest. It's a chance to spend a few hours out in nature, among fellow mushroom enthusiasts, maybe finding something special. _Friendly_. No one keeping score.

Fuck that noise. Stiles has never been good at keeping his competitive streak in check.

Stiles knows and respects a lot of the people here, which makes it easier to confine the competition (the one he knows is only in his head) to "man vs. nature" or "man vs. self." But he's mature enough to admit that there is one instance where his struggle is most certainly "man vs. man."

Specifically, "man vs. Derek Hale."

Stiles wouldn't even mind that every year he loses the competition between them (that's only in his head anyway) if not for the fact that what Derek is doing is basically impossible. Morels aren't like apples; you rarely walk up to a spot and find a hundred just sitting there. Usually you find one, or a little clump of four or five, and when those are in your bag, you walk on. And unlike when people go out on their own and spend the whole day with their bags and sticks, the BCMS hunt lasts two hours. That's not much time to cover the ground necessary for that kind of haul.

Worst of all, Stiles can't hate him for it. Derek is all soft smiles and aw-shucks modesty, like it's sheer luck, year after year, when he brings in the biggest harvest. The way his gorgeous eyes (Stiles tried describing their color to Scott once and ended up on a ten-minute digression about color theory. Scott doesn't let him talk about Derek's eyes anymore) twinkle when he talks about how much his nieces and nephews love morels and how he gives most of what he finds to them—well, it's possible that the other reason Stiles doesn't mind losing to Derek is his Texas-sized crush on the dude.

Still. Stiles' pride is on the line. He can't win, but he's determined to figure out Derek Hale's secret techniques, so he can at least lose with a little more dignity.

*

"Hey, Stiles."

Stiles jumps, and his tube of sunblock tumbles to the ground, splorting little white blobs on his Chucks. He sighs and bends over to pick up the tube and wipe the glops off as best he can.

Above him, Derek chuckles. "Sorry."

Stiles tilts his head enough to glare at him. "Not sure I believe you, Hale," he says, but his grumbling is halfhearted at best. This guy, seriously. Being mad at him is really difficult.

"I'm glad you're here today," Derek says softly, which Stiles is still getting used to. Derek looks like he walked straight out of a recruitment brochure for extreme lumberjacking, but he talks like he spends his days rescuing kittens or fixing boo-boos on little kids' dolls. He actually teaches Central and South American history at Beacon City Central High, which seems to Stiles more like extreme lumberjacking. Or a war zone.

He forces himself to focus. Derek is talking to him; he shouldn't be getting weird about Derek's job. Or his voice. "Yeah," he says. "Wouldn't miss it."

Derek grins, like he heard what was unsaid, and sticks his hand out. Stiles shakes against his better judgment; he's trying to maintain his competitive rancor, which is difficult when Derek's smiling and holding out what, if Stiles remembers correctly from when they shook at the end of last year's event, is a very strong, very soft hand. And, yup, it's like Stiles remembers—warm, too, which is a balm on a surprisingly chilly morning for early June. "Good luck out there."

Stiles takes his hand back reluctantly, before he does something regrettable, like just stand there holding Derek's hand. He nods. "Yeah, man, you, too." He doesn't add, "And may the best man win," first off because it's still not supposed to be a competition, and second because he suspects that, in this scenario, "the best man" isn't him.

Over beyond the parking area, the current chair of the Mycological Society is calling everyone over for the official start of the hunt. Derek gives Stiles an adorable finger-wave as, from the cluster of people next to the woods, someone calls Derek's name and waves him over. Oh, yeah, it's Boyd, who's one of Derek's best friends. Stiles dated his wife for a hot second in high school, which kind of makes it awkward for Stiles to be around him, not that Boyd seems to give half a damn.

Derek jogs away, and Stiles enjoys the back view as he goes. Stiles doesn't entirely understand how even someone as freakishly attractive as a Hale can look so good in sweatpants, but there's no denying that his ass looks good enough to _eat_.

*

Stiles takes careful note of Derek as Iris wraps up her usual opening patter and releases the hunters into the woods. Boyd claps Derek on the shoulder and goes off on his own. Stiles ambles, but quickly, in Derek's direction. He doesn't want to be obvious about following the dude, but if he doesn't keep a close eye on where Derek's headed, he'll lose him.

Stiles thinks he has a good lock on Derek's position. He makes an unexpected stop just inside the tree line, not long enough to collect anything, and Stiles has almost caught up by the time he moves on. Stiles' blood pounds in his ears. Finally, he's going to know how Derek finds so damned many morels each year.

When he reaches the spot where he'd thought Derek had gone and peers around the tree he's hiding behind, he thinks at first that he's guessed wrong. There's no broad-shouldered, dreamy-eyed, gorgeous-assed history teacher here. There's just a huge black dog—Tamaskan, maybe—snuffling in the leaf litter.

Stiles sneaks closer. Eyes fixed on the dog, he slides one foot forward, then the other—and promptly staggers forward, almost pitching onto his face as his foot catches on something soft and squishy. He holds his breath as he looks over, anticipating a half-decayed squirrel carcass or a pile of fox scat, and is startled to discover a boot. An old, worn, brown hiking boot. A hiking boot Stiles saw on Derek Hale not ten minutes ago.

He doesn't yell when he trips, but he must make some sound, or maybe the disturbance of the leaves is enough to catch the dog's attention. Its head snaps up, ears swiveling forward as it turns in his direction. Fortunately there's enough tree cover between Stiles and the dog that it can't see him, and it quickly loses interest and goes back to snuffling.

But Stiles has a good view of the dog, which is how he gets to see that it isn't a dog at all.

He turns and slinks away as quickly as he can while still moving silently. His mind works frantically, calculating known habitat distributions and population statistics. Wild wolves have been reintroduced in California, but their population is growing slowly. It's not impossible, but there is another explanation that, as farfetched as it seems, looks more plausible to Stiles.

Once he thinks he's far enough away from the wolf, he walks another quarter-mile to be sure, and then he pulls out his phone and calls Scott. "Is there any chance," Stiles asks, "that Derek Hale is a werewolf?"

*

Derek Hale is a werewolf.

*

Getting Scott to admit this takes a lot of arm-twisting on Stiles' part. Scott may have been Alpha Ito's most stubborn, instruction-resistant beta ever before he ascended to become Werewolf Moses or whatever the hell being a True Alpha is about, but one lesson she taught him that he will take to his grave is to _never_ out another werewolf to a human unless the werewolf is endangering the human's life.

But eventually Scott tells him, in his best "well, duh" voice, as if, of the two of them, _Stiles_ is supposed to be the lycanthropy expert here, that all the Hales are born werewolves. They're the strongest and most respected family pack in California.

 _Now_ Stiles is kind of pissed.

*

He's also losing precious foraging time. He ends the call and tromps determinedly into the woods. Werewolf supersenses or no, Stiles' haul _will_ exceed Derek's this year—or at least come damned close. It's not just Stiles vs. Derek anymore. It's humanity vs. the supernatural.

Or something like that.

Two hours later, Stiles emerges from a stand of aspens that's been good to him the last couple years. It's not his _best_ spot—nobody goes to their best spots during this event, in case unscrupulous fellow hunters are spying—but it hasn't disappointed.

His haul this year, if he does say so himself, is outstanding. The aspen stand was his last stop; his bag had been pleasantly hefty by the time he'd arrived, and now it's filled up nicely. He still can't beat a born werewolf at this, but he's made a strong showing for humanity.

As usual, two hours outside in Nature has done wonders for his mood. He almost doesn't care that Derek is basically cheating. At this thing that isn't a competition. So can't be cheated at. Except that Derek's totally cheating. But Stiles doesn't care. Almost.

Stiles shakes his head at himself and trudges on toward the potluck gathering spot. People are already setting out their offerings, so many the picnic table looks like it's bowing under the weight. Covered casserole dishes, crockpots, piles of rolls and croissants—Stiles has been to a lot of potlucks in his life, and _nobody_ eats like mushroomers.

His brain switches into food mode—lock the morels in the car, grab his bag of Doritos (look, he came off a double shift last night; he didn't have time to cook. Not that he would have. Stiles is good at a lot of things, but cooking has never been one of them), and head back to the potluck.

As he heads toward his Jeep, Derek appears beside him, grinning broadly. "Hey, Stiles."

Stiles smiles back. "Hey, Derek."

"How'd it go?"

Stiles holds up his bag. He'd lost count after a while, but he thinks there are about thirty morels in his bag. Some people might say that's too many, but those people don't know Danny, who's come to view Stiles as some sort of weird fungus-pusher and will demand at least a half dozen for his own consumption ("Or I'll tell Scott what really happened to his _Roll of Thunder_ diorama in fourth grade"). Stiles should cut the guy off, but the look on Danny's face when he takes the morels is literally the cutest thing he's ever seen—and he grew up with _Scott_ , okay; it's a high bar. Stiles just can't turn him down.

Stiles also knows that Scott, Kira, his parents, and Melissa will mysteriously "just be in the neighborhood," at dinner time. This amount of mushrooms is _nothing_ compared to the destructive eating power of his family and friends.

Derek nods approvingly. "Nice," he says, and Stiles can tell he's sincere.

"Thanks," Stiles says. Then he sighs. "And you?" Derek blushes a little and looks away. Stiles pokes him in the ribs, and he jumps gratifyingly. "Come on, Hale; I know you blew me away. Let's see." Sheepishly, Derek holds up a mesh bag that ought to be _two_ bags, it's holding so much. Stiles figures there's at least double what he's got. He whistles. "God _damn_ ," he mutters.

He waits for the flicker of anger now that he knows how Derek does so well. It doesn't come. Huh. Maybe he doesn't bear Derek any ill-will. After all, Derek is a born werewolf. It's not like he went out and got the bite for the sole purpose of being a better morel hunter. In fact, the more Stiles thinks about it, the more he suspects that Derek probably found far more morels than he picked.

He remembers Scott saying, after he was turned, how difficult it became to "pass" in public so no one figured out his secret. He'd told everyone he'd undergone special treatment for his asthma, so no one expected him to suddenly fall to the ground, unable to breathe, like he'd done before. Still, figuring out how to seem just better enough, rather than "suspiciously and supernaturally better" was a constant struggle for his first year.

Now, Derek's a born wolf, so he has more practice, but it still has to be something he's constantly aware of, figuring out what a human would be capable of in this situation and doing just a _tiny_ bit better, rather than clearing the entire forest of morels, which he probably could do.

Stiles is actually more pissed that he's not pissed than he is about Derek's enormous... um, morel haul. Stiles is a champion grudge-holder. He should be dining out on Derek's secret for _years_. But he can't raise the energy. Must be all this damned fresh air. And the fact that Derek looks so damned gorgeous, slightly sweaty, little smudges of dirt on his cheeks and forehead, grinning so widely and proudly that the little crinkles next to his eyes show up clearly. Stiles wants so badly to lean over and kiss those little crinkles.

And, oh, yup, _now_ he's upset. Upset that he doesn't get to stay with Derek while they hunt, doesn't get to work side-by-side with him, each find rewarded with a kiss. He shakes himself—and then freezes as he remembers, _again_ : born werewolf. Derek's probably smelled every hit of lust, anger, and competitive spirit Stiles has wafted his way for the last four years. And bless him for not saying anything about it, but... if he's known all along that Stiles is into him, and he hasn't made a move in return, then that means he's not interested back.

Well, that's the most depressing news Stiles has had today. Not even the healing power of Nature can get him over that sting.

*

Once Stiles's plate is loaded with food, he turns toward the picnic area and sees Derek give him a wave from where he and Boyd are set up. Stiles makes a series of complicated hand and eyebrow gestures meant to indicate "Can I join you?" and chooses to interpret Derek's eyeroll as a yes.

Stiles drops his camp chair on the ground and sets his plate gingerly beside it.

Derek snorts. "Jeez, Stilinski, you eat like a—" He breaks off with a soft oof, and Stiles glances up quickly, in time to see Boyd pull his elbow away from Derek's ribs, smiling softly to take the sting out of it. Derek looks startled and sheepish and rubs the spot. Actually, he rubs it _really hard_ while looking repeatedly at Stiles. Like he wants Stiles to know how wounded he is.

Jesus on a jelly donut. Boyd's probably a werewolf, too. Stiles may be the only human in this little circle. Ugh.

"Stiles, you remember Boyd," Derek says.

Stiles jerks his chin in Boyd's direction. "Hey."

Boyd nods back. "Deputy Stilinski."

Derek looks at Boyd and does something super-complicated with his face. Boyd responds with a different, equally complicated expression. A lot of dismay seems to be involved. Then Boyd must notice Stiles watching them, because his eyebrows lift in a fairly universal symbol for "the normals are watching; try to blend."

Stiles rolls his eyes. He needs to let these poolnoodles know he's onto their fuzzy secret, so they can stop acting as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on with them.

"So how did the woods treat you?" he asks as he unfolds his chair and sits down.

Boyd scowls. Stiles shouldn't even be thinking things like this, but it's… cute. "Damned plants with thorns," he gripes. "I always walk away from this thing with my jeans full of holes."

"I can't believe how much _lichen_ is on the trees this year," Stiles says. He makes sure to waggle his eyebrows when he says it.

Derek frowns and shakes his head. "I didn't see more than usu—oh." A panicked look crosses his face.

Stiles covers his mouth to hide his laugh, tries to turn it into a cough. Boyd looks suspicious, and Derek looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him.

"I didn't see a lot of lichen," Boyd says slowly, eyes narrowed. "Not much more than other years."

Stiles shrugs. Well, Boyd has never appreciated the magic of his sense of humor. "Maybe there wasn't. I just get so _moony_ over it." Derek looks even more distressed, and Stiles gives up trying to fool himself that he doesn't find it charming.

He's not sure why Derek's embarrassed. If anything, _Stiles_ is the one who suffers under this revelation. Thinking about how many _feelings_ he's been feeling in Derek's direction for the past several years makes him want his own sinkhole.

Boyd rolls his eyes. "So weird, Stilinski," he mutters.

"Yeah, Stilinski," Derek adds, bumping their feet together. "I'm sure the lichen are the same as always. Don't be the boy who cries wolf."

Stiles sits up fast. Oh, wolfie got jokes, huh? This is now officially the best day of his _life_. Stiles flips up the hood of his red hoodie—chosen for its brightness and high visibility; he never wants a turkey hunter mistaking his pasty face for a bird—and bats his eyelashes at Derek. "Oh, Mr. Wolf, don't eat me before I get to Grandma's house."

Derek looks at him, and for a second Stiles sees how hard he's struggling to hold onto control. His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate, but the real tell is how he clenches his jaw and grips the arms of his chair to keep his fangs and claws in check. And his voice is low and rough when he grits out, "What about _after_?"

Stiles' smile grows Cheshire-cat slow as he reaches down and picks up his bottle of root beer, making sure to take a long, leisurely drink, head tipped back to show off his neck. He's not one hundred percent sure, but he thinks Derek growls, and Boyd makes a pained sound and mutters, "Really?"

It's a battle for Stiles to keep himself from doing a victory dance in his chair. Apparently Derek's not as uninterested as previously believed. That's a powerful feeling.

Stiles lets it go for the rest of the potluck. Today isn't about flirting—or, at least, it isn't _just_ about flirting. He comes every year because he loves morels, the woods, and the giant fungus nerds in the Mycological Society. He's not great at quiet and concentration even at the best of times, but when he gets into the groove of foraging, he can find a few blessed minutes of calm inside his head. But his heavy and unpredictable work schedule frequently keeps him from the Society's events. The morel hunt is the only one where he will fight for the time off. So today he's going to soak up the sun, eat epic quantities of potluck foods, and wander the picnic area catching up with friends and acquaintances in the Society.

And if he happens to bend over chairs and tables more often than strictly necessary because he suspects Derek's watching his ass, well, that's just a bonus.

*

Stiles loads his camp chair into the back of the Jeep and slams the gate. He turns—and jumps a mile in the air when he comes face-to-face and chest-to-chest with Derek. He puts his hand over his racing heart and slumps against the Jeep. "Jesus, Hale. I'm gonna put a bell on you."

Stiles can only describe Derek's grin as wolfish as he leans in way close, nose brushing Stiles' neck as he murmurs, "Kinky," in Stiles' ear.

Stiles swallows. "You are a supernatural menace," he mutters.

Derek chuckles, low and dark. He inhales deeply, making Stiles shiver. Then he pulls away, and his eyes search Stiles' face intently. Stiles looks back, intrigued but patient—well, as patient as he's capable of being. Derek looks into his eyes again. "You know about me," he says quietly.

Stiles shrugs. "I didn't before today. Wouldn't even have guessed."

"So what happens now?"

Stiles is so sharply aware of Derek's sheer physical presence—the way his arms box Stiles in against the Jeep; the heat radiating off his body, the occasional hit of his scent—it's all very heady, and Stiles is having trouble thinking at all, much less logically. The look on his face probably isn't particularly flattering. "What do you mean?"

Derek smiles gently. One of his hands comes off the car and drifts down to rest, lightly but with deliberation and intent, on Stiles' hip. "I mean that now that you know what I am, we can do something about..." He lifts his other hand, too, and gestures between them, not that there's a lot of _between_ between them. "...this."

Stiles catches Derek's hand mid-wave. He holds it against his chest so he can feel its reassuring heat and weight, and so Derek can feel Stiles' heart pounding. "I didn't know there was a this," he admits quietly. "I thought there was just a... me."

Derek ducks his head. "I almost lost someone I loved very much because I wasn't honest with her about who I am. I promised myself I would never get involved with someone who didn't know. I just... I couldn't figure out how to bring it up."

Stiles rests his head against the Jeep. "Oh, thank God. Once I realized, I thought you'd been... smelling it on me for years and politely ignoring it because you weren't interested."

"I _was_ politely ignoring it," Derek says. "We were raised to consider other people's emotions the same way as their conversations. We couldn't always help overhearing—"

"Or oversmelling?"

Derek snorts and squeezes Stiles' hand. "But we weren't supposed to acknowledge it, and we would never hold it against someone."

Derek realizes his mistake a split second too late, and his eyes widen as Stiles wriggles against him. "You can hold it against me. I won't mind. In fact, I encourage it."

Derek growls again, sounding, if such a thing is possible, amused, aroused, and exasperated all at once. His eyes flash gold briefly, and then he's dipping his head down, tilting Stiles' chin up, and kissing him hard.

Stiles makes a startled but happy _eep_ in the back of his throat and grabs Derek's arm with his other hand. Derek gentles the kiss but doesn't end it. Stiles takes the opportunity to get fully on board, enjoying the softness of Derek's lips and the faint scratch of his beard.

When Derek ends the kiss he doesn't go far. Stiles slides his hand down Derek's arm to find his hand, linking their fingers. Their other hands are still linked, too, pressed between their chests at heart level. "Okay, so, what happens _now_?" Stiles asks a bit breathlessly.

Derek shrugs, and when he speaks, Stiles is gratified to hear that he's a little breathless, too. "It's been a while, but I think I remember how this dating thing works."

Stiles snorts. "Good, then you can remind me. I've been on a lot of first dates lately, but nothing sticks." He blinks up at Derek. "You remember I'm a sheriff's deputy with shit hours, right?"

Derek nods solemnly. "You may have mentioned it a time or two. And you remember that I'm a high school teacher and a born werewolf from a family of overachievers."

Stiles nods. "Good. I don't want us going into this expecting a normal, easy relationship."

Derek snorts. "Find me an 'easy' relationship to compare it to."

Oh, good. Stiles like Derek's dating philosophy already.

"Listen," Derek says, "do you know Cora?"

Stiles vaguely remembers Derek's younger sister from school; she was a year ahead of him and very scary, a commanding presence every time she walked down the hall. He nods, a bit worried about where this conversation is going.

"She hasn't been able to be at this hunt in, like, three years because she has matches pretty much every Saturday."

Right. Now Stiles remembers that, in addition to her job as a pro-environment lobbyist, Cora plays for the UWLX, the semi-pro women's lacrosse league. Derek's older sister Laura holds a half-dozen medical device patents, which was formerly just an interesting factoid but is highly intriguing now that he knows she's a born werewolf and basically can't get sick. Their mom is a Beacon County commissioner. Their dad sits on the state arts board. Forget the supernatural angle; Stiles isn't sure he can keep up with the Hale family's _accomplishments_.

"So we have a tradition of coming back the day after the hunt to see what else we can find," Derek continues. "If you're free, you're welcome to join us."

He _is_ free, but—"Morel hunting with _two_ born werewolves? I'm not sure my ego could stand the blows."

Derek smiles sweetly and gives Stiles another gentle kiss. He moves his lips close to Stiles' ear and whispers, "I'll show you my best spots." He pauses. "I might even let you win."

Stiles thinks he's in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I simplified both the morel foraging process and the lifecycle of a fungus for the sake of story coherence. If you have questions about any of it, please feel free to ask. I'm no expert, but I am a very enthusiastic amateur.
> 
> Won't you come [tumbl with me](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/)?


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